


My mother said to pick.

by hellhoundsprey



Series: crime!aus [4]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Bottom Jensen, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sadistic Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: You were chased by cops and took me as a hostage but you didn’t realize the cops were after me. (original prompt)





	

The kid is still shaking like a madman, and about half of your nervousness can be assigned to the unlatched security of that gun. Why’s he even have one. Couldn’t harm a fly, that one, lack of skill or not.

Adrenaline pushes his cock up against the fly of his jeans, just like yours. You can see it tick-tick-tick with his pulse, actually.

Futile, yeah, but here you are catching your breaths. As if the two of you are safe here.

God, amateurs.

“We should leave,” and he stares at you like you just considered double-suicide. You hold back from rolling your eyes. “This is a _shitty_ hide-out. They’ll get you in no time at all.”

His forehead wrinkles a fucking lot more than you thought it could. Maybe wonders what the fuck is wrong with you, aka his hostage, why you don’t want him to get caught, what kind of batshit crazy games you’re playing.

Better to leave these things in the dark (for now). “Let’s move,” you urge, already shuffling to the exit of the shed, “I know a good place.”

Suddenly you lead this pack. He doesn’t even question it.

Figures. He’s scared, and you are not.

He’s stupid, and you are not.

He thinks he has things to lose over this, but he has no idea (about _anything_ ), and you envy him, kind of.

The poorly lit backyards and alleys are your friends, as always, and you’re tempted to go for the kid’s hand so he won’t get lost on the way. Coughing up battery acid and bending over shaking legs, you learn his name and give him one of yours. He smiles for it. Already forgot what is happening. Caught up in so much, that stuff is not unlikely, but he’s too easy. Looks even younger than you. He’s helpless.

Good. You’ll make him need you.

~

You peer into the hallway. Nobody seems to be home. You don’t know if you should feel relieved.

“This is it,” you announce, and enter.

He’s right at your heel. “Is, is this, are we.”

Your hand finds his shoulder in the darkness, bleeds some warmth into that ice. You turn your head to tell him, “It’s fine,” and you mean it. For you, this is perfectly fine. “It’s a friend’s. They won’t find you here.”

He nods, visibly unsure but willing to believe. Seemingly intact apartment buildings in a seemingly clean part of town, full of seemingly rightful citizens—so safe, uh-huh. Nobody suspects a thing. Hell, you’d believe it yourself if you weren’t part of the spoiler.

Apartment 3H; you peel the key out of your wallet carefully.

“Your friend’s not. I mean, they’re not...?”

“We’re alone,” you promise under your breath, and you watch him blink and shuffle impossibly closer. Like you could protect him.

Kid’s done nothing wrong—wrong place, wrong time. That’s what you thought.

But kid’s got a gun tucked in the back of his jeans and he’s so nervous he _can’t_ be a good one, absolutely not. There’s something eating at him, and that’s not what tonight was supposed to be about but now your curiosity is awake you might as well feed it.

White powder is so easily hidden under a crown of milk. Jeff’s got a De’Longhi for reasons.

“There y’go.”

He takes it like a treat. A huddled mess of over-long limbs on Jeff’s couch, shivering with exhaustion and cold and terror. His eyes are popped wide, haven’t relaxed ever since you first saw them. Unfortunately, you doubt Jared’ll be able to keep ’em that way until Jeff makes it home.

“This is crazy,” the kid sighs, slumps over some more. You’re seated right across him. Your knees almost touch. “What is even. I.”

“What’d you do?” you ask, concern so palpable in your voice that he can’t _not_ wince up for it. “Why’re they chasin’ you?”

“Don’t ask. Please.”

You went from hostage to barista, and now he’s asking you _please_.

The coffee table groans under your shifting weight. Your knees are between his now, one hand on his kneecap, and he’s not as uncomfortable as...well, anyone would be.

You see him swallow, rearrange his long-long fingers around his mug. “’S. I was supposed to. An’ then I didn’t...” His eyes drag low. He frowns, confused. “I dun. Don’t have to tell you any of. Y-you’re supposed to be my...”

You let him pat himself down for his pistol. He doesn’t even draw it once he finds it (security intact again, tucked back where it was before you two ran into each other with cops in your backs).

“Okay,” you soothe. “Another time.”

~

The kid (Jared, Jay, you like Jay, feels good to say it) sleeps uneasy despite the drugs. Turns a lot, mutters. He leaves little puddles of slobber and unknowingly chafes his wrists raw against the handcuffs.

You secure him better, with ropes, after you’ve had enough of it. It’s been a long night. You need your peace now.

On your side, facing Jared and the window at Jared’s back, your mind returns to the alleyway. To the dumpster.

The weight and the sweat. The sweet smell that’s so fleeting, so easily turns into too much.

Your hand ghosts over your crotch. You get up, take a shower, lock your cock up, put on pajama pants and a black wife beater. You order pizza at the usual place, get the usual one; diet coke on the side. Seinfeld is on.

Jeff returns at four AM on the dot. You actually hear him hesitate in front of the door, and you break into a smile.

Daddy can smell trouble ten miles up the wind.

He’s soft and quiet in how he enters the apartment, secures all the locks. You sprawl longer on the couch, arch and stretch until your top rides up, until he flashes you the most subtle glance.

“What’s going on here.”

He peels the leather gloves from his fingers while he speaks, while he walks over to you. He bends over to kiss your mouth. You’re still smiling (maybe more so now that you can smell all that fresh blood on him).

“Baby, what did you do.”

“I found something. It’s in the bedroom.”

He leaves you for a moment to check, comes back with a certain spring in his step.

He goes for the fridge to pull out his beloved Evian. “Baby,” he says, almost-painful. “Baby, I said no more strays. Didn’t I say that to you.”

“It _followed_ me.”

“And you couldn’t easily have lost it.”

He’s by your side yet again, and you tilt up your head to present your throat to his fingertips as you specify, “But Daddy, it had a _gun_.”

His eyes flash; the kind that makes the corner of his mouth pull up.

“Hm,” he ponders. “A dangerous one.”

“Very,” you purr. “Chased by cops. Don’t know why yet. Kept me hostage.”

He shakes his head, traces your neck. “You always gotta get in trouble, don’t you.”

~

You see confusion, panic, hysteria.

You see that a lot. It’s kinda your job.

You see resignation too, a lot, but not necessarily this early. But usually, your jobs have more to their name than a first semester veterinarian college education, a politely-starved body covered in what you assume are big brother hand-me-downs. The people you usually deal with are used to decapitations before or during breakfast.

(Not that it makes any difference, ultimately. Not one _hasn’t_ cried.)

“Let me go.”

He’s shaking, again. Like all these tiny breeds of dogs; not for cold but excitement, because they’re so little they’re burning up inside, want to run all the time. (Not that Jay will run anytime soon.)

You watch his eyes go a little wider, a little damper with that sweet-sweet, “ _Please_.”

You don’t answer, get up, leave. You hear him hyperventilating and yipping behind the closed door, and you would press against it and listen and jerk off to it if Jeff wasn’t eyeing you with that particular expression on his face.

You know how you look when you’re like this. Your cock throbs in its cage.

You walk up to him, to the sofa, straddle him, arms around his neck, mouths half-drifting against each other. Jared starts wailing in the other room and Jeff puts his hands on your hips; slides them to your ass not long after.

Jeff has many boys working for him and his colleagues. Always has, always will. But you know for certain that none of them could ever be where you are, sit where you sit, feel him grow hard because this is you, because _he chose you_.

Jeff employs all kind of filth, but you’re his favorite.

You—you pick up trash on the side and play with it until you’re tired, until you forget about it and skip to the next. You’re a spoiled piece of shit, true, but goddamn—you’ve earned it.

None of the others could breath-claim like you, “Let him hear you fuck me,” could get away with it and be allowed, always, to get their fill.


End file.
